


With him in your dreams

by TeaHouseMoon



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Love, M/M, Memories, Sad, Sex, porn with a little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21857389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: So, I wanted to try something different.You know I don’t write real person fan fiction, but this time I wanted to try something that would work in either case regardless of which pairing you choose (Elio/Oliver or Timothee/Armie), just as a challenge to myself.What do you think? Did it work? :)Sorry if it’s a little angsty. Also - as a disclaimer, I do NOT think Timothee and Armie hook up in real life.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman, Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 25
Kudos: 118





	With him in your dreams

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wanted to try something different. 
> 
> You know I don’t write real person fan fiction, but this time I wanted to try something that would work in either case regardless of which pairing you choose (Elio/Oliver or Timothee/Armie), just as a challenge to myself. 
> 
> What do you think? Did it work? :) 
> 
> Sorry if it’s a little angsty. Also - as a disclaimer, I do NOT think Timothee and Armie hook up in real life.

He holds your hips. His hands are wide, large, just as you always remember them, hold you steady and firmly and it’s like you’re reminded, every time, of how tall and strong he is.

“You should eat more,” he says in his warm voice, low. A smile on his face so you know he’s not scolding.

“I eat.” Your tone is playful, but also put out. He knows you eat.

“I haven’t seen you in quite some time. You’ve lost weight.”

You roll your eyes. “I eat.”

He’s still smiling, looking at you, amused. His hands still on your hips, holding, and you want to growl softly at how bony your body is, compared to his. You’re always surprised that someone like him would ever want someone like you.

“You look different, though. Grown up,” he continues, and his blue eyes scan you, your face, your neck, your shoulders. Your chest. The hips he’s holding. 

You know what he means - your cheeks are slimmer, more angular, you’ve lost almost all whatever little puppy fat you had on you, that was really just a little roundness, a softness around the edges left over from childhood. You look older, now, and you know it. 

“Though, I still see the boy I met. Back then.”

You chuckle. “Stop.”

“It’s a good memory,” he smiles, looks back up into your eyes. “I just like how you grow more and more beautiful, right in front of my eyes.”

You look down. “It’s because you don’t see me often.”

A sigh. “Yes. And there isn’t a day that I don’t curse myself for it.”

You keep quiet, keep your eyes on the floor. You want to say that it’s always the same story. What you’ve talked about, so many times before. If he left his wife, if he left his perfect existence with her, then he’d be able to see you more often. Then, you’d be able to be together, maybe. Maybe in New York. Not openly, no - but you two would know. And that’s what’s important.

He’s already had kids with his wife, and so it’s not like that’s something he’d miss out on by being with you - though if you could, you’d give him children, too, of course. Whatever he’d want. Whatever he wants.

He raises a hand slowly, tangles his fingers into your curls. They’re thick, and messy, and he’s careful not to hurt you. But he loves your hair. You know that.

“Don’t cut it,” he says softly, his eyes glimmering.

You raise your hand too, stroke the pads of your fingers along his beard on his chin and jaws, the short coarse hair. You know how good that feels on the most delicate parts of your body.

“Only if you don’t cut this.”

You smile, a little, you’re flirting, the best you know how, but you like to think you’ve learned and you’re way better at it than you were when you first met him. He always calls you clumsy, laughs affectionately every time you curl up into him for attention, or bump his chest with your forehead, or tilt your head while looking up at him from under your eyelashes coquettishly. But now, maybe, he will see you’re no longer just a kid, not a young inexperienced man anymore. Not the one whose cheeks were streaked with tears while in his arms, and begging him to go slow and yet fuck him, do whatever he wanted with you, because your time together in Italy was about to end. 

You’re no longer that young kid.

Now, when he kisses you, when his big hands cup each side of your face and hold while he opens your mouth with his mouth, you give just as much back. You open your mouth just like he wants but then kiss, lick his tongue, bite his bottom lip until he has to growl and hold you tighter to make you behave. He’s always liked control. He’s always liked taming you. 

You’ve always offered yourself up to be tamed.

He undresses you quickly, and now you know what’s about to happen, scene by scene.

After he’s kissed your mouth long enough for your lips to become swollen - because he likes them like that, he likes to bite them, he says your lips get him hard - he kisses down your neck, the side of your throat, the jut of your collarbone. 

You help to undress him too, stroke your fingers through the hair on his chest, down to his belly, the treasure trail to his sex. You want to say something. Because he’s beautiful, way more than you are, he’s handsome and strong and sexy and everything that’s in your dreams. You’re just not too good with words, you’re clumsy with them, too. What you want to say, really, is one thing. 

You want to say that you love him. But you can’t. 

That would ruin everything. That would make him stop, like back then, hold you back by your biceps firmly, look into your eyes with his own wide, disapproving ones - ‘Baby, no. Hey, look at me. No. I don’t want this for you.’

You didn’t even know what he meant back then, and anyway, your eyes were full of tears after that for you to do anything, for you to even think.

So, you don’t say anything.

He kisses your throat, another of his favourite things to do, then your nipples, your sternum and your belly button. He strokes around to your backside - he’s taken off your jeans, too, or maybe you did it yourself, you can’t remember - pulls you flush up against him, and he’s naked too, and his sex pushes, rigid, on your abdomen. When he encourages you to lay back on the bed - hotel bed, another one - you do it, open your mouth for more kisses when he’s on top of you. Suck him for a while, when he climbs up, positions himself carefully. You’ve become good at that, and he always returns the favour, and he’s good, too, no, he’s amazing, he makes you come like that, and you pout after, pretending not to know that he’s going to make you orgasm again once he fucks you properly. 

This only happens with him.

“No one else can do this to me,” you breathe in between thrusts, then. Your body jolting back, his much bigger one pinning you to the mattress, his strong hips slamming into yours, and every time you think you might break but you know you won’t.

He growls.

“No one else should do this,” he thrusts even harder, and you cry out, loud. “No one else should fuck you.”

He’s always been jealous, very jealous, and you know it. He believes so many people want you, and he’s told you before, he hates to think of someone else’s hands on you. You indulge him, because there’s nothing else you can do.

Not when you’d want to tell him that you’d be more than happy to give yourself to him only, forever.

“No one else,” you say on his mouth, the air pushed out of your lungs as he thrusts. You promise yourself you will not sleep with anyone else. Ever. Only with him. 

You will become celibate, if that’s what it takes. You’ll hold girls’ hands and smile with them and go get food and smoke with them, but then you’ll go home by yourself. Think of him, hoping for him to call you, so that you can tell him. Maybe one day. ‘I love you. I love you. I really love you.’

And maybe, one day, you’ll hear this. You’ll hear the words. ‘I’ve left her. I love you too.’

“Close?” his voice says instead, into your ear, and you feel the warmth of his breath as he still fucks you without slowing down. His hand is flat on your abdomen, warms it up even more, and you know he likes to feel how your muscles contract when you come. “Yes,” you manage to breathe, and close your eyes, giving yourself to the sensation, giving yourself to him. 

You’ve laid together, after, for a while. Just resting. 

For a moment, you wonder if he’s fallen asleep. You’ve been staring at the wall in front of you, as he holds you from behind on the messy bed. You’re pretty sure you’ve come on the white sheets. You’re pretty sure his come is inside you, still all there.

“Will she send her Christmas card to my parents, this year?”

Your voice is sort of muted. You wonder if it’s because you’re speaking against the pillow case, or because you have no voice left, at all.

“Just don’t look at it.” He’s awake.

You wish you could tell him, ‘I want her to stop.’ As if your mother isn’t going to put that Christmas card up on the wall together with all the others she receives from work and friends. As if, spending the holidays home with her, you’re not going to see his face on that card, smiling next to his wife, their two children at their feet dressed in little matching pijamas. 

As if that image from his picture-perfect life and your mother’s knowing expressionaren’t going to break your heart, one more time.

He pushes his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder. His breath is warm. You bite your lip, breathe. Scold yourself for the thoughts. He’s here with you, now. Only for a few hours, only for a short while. But he’s here, he’s inside you. He can be yours, just yours, for a little while.

“Sleep,” he tells you, speaking against your skin. 

You breathe. And a moment later, he’s quiet, dozing off.

You hold his arms around you, a little tighter, and imagine you can hear his heartbeat, just like you do in your dreams. 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment please! I’m interested to know what you think. And which pairing did you see while you were reading?? 
> 
> Much love xx


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